Light a Candle
by blinkblink
Summary: Living through loss of a different kind. Vague SnakexOtacon
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Don't own MGS or characters. You know the drill.

Note: I apologize for the horrible paragraph breaks, but I can't make this idiotic new "official scene marker" thing work. If you'd like to read a version with ACTUAL SCENE MARKERS, it's up on my site (link in my profile). Thanks. (If anyone's having actual success with this marker thing, I'd love to know how.)

LIGHT A CANDLE

The wood under his fingertips is smooth with wear, shallow ridges running through it like miniature valleys. There are mountainous knots as well, some hollow in the centre in the shape of tiny volcanoes, and he traces their borders, learning their geography. The wall to his left is cold cement, slightly dusty like he imagines the surface of the moon, and when he runs his fingers over its rough surface, he sometimes finds sharp little craters, edges uneven and serrated.

He forces himself to concentrate on this. He maps out the terrain of the bunk in his mind, drawing in deep purple circles for the sunken bolts, thick yellow lines for the space between spars of wood, blue streaks for the border of the bunk. He paints in bright red the bolts fastening the bench to the wall, adding the wall itself in cool mint green with darker sage green speckles for the hollows. He savours the colours in his mind, each thick and bright as finger paint.

Only when he has retraced each and every line of the map does he allow himself to reach down, shoulder settling over the tiny valleys like a heavy mist, and pick up the bowl sitting on the ground. He knows if he lies on his side with his head exactly aligned with the end of the bunk that his fingers will find the bowl, if he reaches straight down, traces a straight line from shoulder to knuckles.

The bowl is made of old tin, dented, scratched and misshapen, the kind of bowl used to feed dogs. It is light now, the ocean of water once contained in it diminished to a tidal pool. He holds it carefully, fingers tucked under the wide rim, thumbs dipped slightly over the edge, and sits up to sip slowly. The water is warm now, and tastes slightly metallic, slightly salty as though he had bled and cried into it, which he has, in fact, not done. He is careful only to take one swallow, leaving a shallow film of liquid covering the uneven bottom of the bowl for later, and replaces it on the floor.

He turns onto his side, lying with his face towards the room. This way he can feel on his cheeks the tiny draught rolling in from under the door, air only slightly colder than that of the cell. It's cold, cold enough that usually he would be wishing for a blanket, or a coat, or even a sweater because his cotton shirt isn't going very far to keep him warm, but he has learned that he should spend any hope he has praying things won't get worse. He's sure they could, but right now he can't see how. Hah.

The metal handcuffs on his wrists chafe and, more annoyingly, prevent him from wrapping his arms around himself, or even rubbing both arms at once. The best he can settle for is to lie with them tucked tight in against his chest, crossed with his knuckles pressing in against his collarbone like some kind of modern-day pharaoh, ruler of his own private cell which might, if they don't start feeding him soon, become his tomb as well. His ears ache with the icy stabbing pains that cold wind brings in them sometimes, especially when his hair is wet. He shakes his head and pulls his knees up closer, new jeans tight against the joints, pressing almost painfully against the bone, and begins to calculate the size of the room based on the air draught, ignoring the fact that he is missing several key variables. He does not think about the fact that he could get up and walk the distance, or measure it with his hands. The point is to keep from thinking.

Eventually, he falls asleep. It makes little difference.

SCENE BREAK

He has no sense of time. His watch is still on his wrist, and sometimes he runs his hands over it, presses the tiny buttons into the flesh of his fingers, rubs his thumb over the smooth plastic face as though to clean it, counts each hole in the strap by running his nail down the strap in a straight line, adding a mental tick for each bump as though keeping a tally. He does not touch the metal cuffs hanging loose around his wrist.

The only way he has to measure time is by the frequency with which his water is replaced, and he has no idea how often that is. He suspects at least twice a day, because while he is good at distracting himself he's not _that_ good, but at the same time he finds it hard to imagine that his captors are worried about dehydration.

He, in fact, finds it hard to imagine that they are worried about him at all. Blatant evidence to the side, they have three times so far tried to trick him into thinking Snake has come for him. They are not very good at this, primarily because Snake is not an easy person to imitate, even when the impersonator has several significant handicaps to use to his advantage. The first attempt came closest to succeeding, while at the same time being farthest. He hadn't expected it, which is why when he felt himself being pulled up and patted on the shoulder, and his fingers brush against the fabric of a bandana, his heart leapt. It plummeted immediately after, because the bandana in his grasp was made of some synthetic nylon, stretchy and oddly slick under his fingers. Snake would use any old rag for a bandana if it came to it, but he wouldn't resort to something which felt like an egg had been cracked over it, and had no capacity for sweat-absorption.

The second attempt was better, but he was ready for it, and didn't have to feel the flat nose under his fingers to know it wasn't Snake. Snake wouldn't know to try that. He considered pushing his fingers in the man's eyes, dragging his nails through the baggy skin of his face, but fear held him back and he instead crawled up into a ball and waited for the man to get bored and begin kicking. It didn't last long.

The third try had little to commend it. They had at least found someone with similar bone structure, but the hair was wrong, the suit was wrong, the angle of the bandana was wrong, and overall, it was just _wrong_. He was tired of their jokes, and their jibes, and their kicks, and so when his hands were pulled up to examine a really-quite-similar nose he dug his nails into the skin there and kicked as hard as he could in the general direction of shins, snarling and screaming into the void like an animal. And then there was the beating. It stopped eventually.

They haven't tried again yet, possibly sensing he is getting ornery about the whole thing. They haven't cut him off from his water, though, and that is all he can find the strength to need. Snake will, probably, come, although he knows enough to know that his chances decrease with each day, and it has already been more than a week. His last attempt at contact was been made at least two days ago, possibly longer, and nothing has happened. Well, nothing positive.

His stomach begins to clench, and he forces himself to concentrate once more on the mathematics of the draught.

SCENE BREAK

When he reaches down again, the water bowl is not there. He waves his hand about for it, like a child sticking his hand in a pet store tank trying to stroke the fish, and finds nothing. Panic begins to flood in, washing away common sense, drowning any idea of calm. He rolls off the bunk and falls to land on all fours on the floor, the cold of the cement seeping up through his palms, knees.

He scrambles across the floor like this, waving his hands in front of him across the cement, ignoring the friction burn, ignoring the pain when he jams his fingers against walls. He finds the bucket he's been given as a toilet in the corner to the left of the door, smells it long before he arrives there, the sharp stink of urine sitting over that corner of the cell like a mist, and he can imagine it, weak and yellow and moving in slow lazy stomach-turning currents. He backs away and strikes out towards the other side of the door, fingers brushing briefly over the smooth metal of the door, the slightly rougher metal of the hinges which are beginning to rust.

He finds the water bowl in the other corner, nearly swipes it over with a frantic movement of his arm, pounces on it with both hands to keep it from overturning. But there is no need to worry; it is heavy and stable now. Someone has been in to fill it. He wraps his fingers around the brim, thumbs edging down over the top to touch the surface of the water. It is still cool. He picks it up and drinks, nearly sick with relief, hands wrapped tightly around his only anchor. It's pathetic, he knows, to depend so much on such a tiny thing, something that can be taken so easily. But he would rather attach himself to this bowl and lose it, than face another loss of a different sort. Snake wouldn't, he thinks, understand the idea of protecting yourself by expanding your emotions, rather than suppressing them. But Snake would never be caught in this situation, so it hardly matters. He would like to think that he's unselfish enough not to wish Snake was in this situation, but god, he wishes he were here. He's never felt so afraid or so alone even in his worst years, terror yawning wide and heavy in his stomach, waiting to swallow him from the inside out as soon as he starts to think about the fact that he'll never- _stop it stop it stopit_- and right now, a tin bowl isn't any sort of company at all.

Bowl grasped tight in cold fingers, he stumbles back to the bench, stopping when he thinks himself close and stepping more carefully until his knee bumps it and he feels the thick wood vibrating just slightly. He turns and sits, then lies down just to put the bowl in its proper place before sitting up again. He pulls his legs up against his chest, back pressed against the cool wall, feels the cold soaking into his skin through the thin layer of his shirt; except he knows that actually the heat is flowing out of him into the wall, complying with  the second law of thermodynamics. He begins to calculate how long it would take for all the heat to leave his body, assuming he stopped producing more. The fact that this would mean he was dead does not occur to him. He is too busy not thinking about other things.

SCENE BREAK

He happens to be awake when the door opens next, feels the sudden wave of cold air wash against his face. This is not unusual, but icy fear shoots through him and he sits up sharply, makes to bring his legs up in front of him before forcing himself to keep them on the ground where they might be useful for kicking. He knows they can't be here for his water; it's only been a few hours at the most since they last filled it. He tenses, waiting for the unknown. And waits. And waits.

The door is still open; he can still feel the cold air drifting in. That is all he knows, concrete not made for carrying vibrations, draught not strong enough to silhouette a person. He has no idea whether someone is in here with him now, or whether the door has been opened for him to go. He doesn't know where he is, has an extremely limited idea of the layout of the building. Fear of the unknown floods in, followed immediately by disbelief and approbation. How pathetic is he, that he would rather stay safe in his cell than try to escape?

His thoughts are shattered by a light touch on his shoulder, and he flinches away, raises his hands to buffer himself from whoever it is. The hand withdraws, and there is a pause. He tries to work up the courage to sneer, but fear is still freezing his movements, and isn't helped by his self-disgust.

The hand returns to his shoulder, stronger this time, and shakes him slightly. It's a heavy hand, large and strong, fingers curving over the rise of his shoulder while the thumb rests against the prominent line of his collarbone. Biting his tongue, the top dry against the roof of his mouth, he reaches up and pushes the hand away, tries to glare. A second hand grabs his jaw, firmly but not cruelly, and tilts his head up slightly. The skin is hard and rough with calluses, nails trimmed short enough that they do not brush against him. He feels the air move in front of his face, is pretty sure the guard, or whoever, is waving his hand in front of his face. He wishes he could think of something to say, or could find the strength to say it.

Then his hands are being taken, carefully, gently, but in a firm grip, and pulled up to rest against warm skin. He nearly pulls his nails through it right away, isn't sure why he doesn't. "Another Snake?" he asks sarcastically, or tries to. He is tense enough, fear and anger wrapped around him like a shell, that the usual horror doesn't seep through. He shifts his hands to the side, fingers searching for eyes, intending to do his damndest to return the favour to at least one of these bastards, when he is forced to pause. Because, even though he isn't intending to, his fingers can't help but trace the sharp lines of the man's nose, eye sockets, and find them to be extremely familiar.

His rage calms, just slightly, and he spreads his fingers higher. They skirt along the edge of a bandanna, light cotton and double-folded, and then up higher into thick hair standing up straight at the front like a field of wheat, pushed up by the bandana. He drags his fingers through it, measures it with his palm against the man's scalp, pulling the hair up between the tips of his fingers to find it is about half the height of his hand. He traces his hands down again, thumbs following the line of a clean nose while fingers traced sharp cheekbones and then down further to hard stubble and a firm mouth. The man's jaw is strong and firm under his now trembling fingers. Slowly, half with relief, half with a dread he does not understand, he drops his hands to brush against the man's collarbone, finds the thin, smooth material of the sneaking suit there, and traces the line of the equipment holster, over stiff pouches containing god-knows-what, down to the belt which holsters at least two semi-automatic weapons. He slips his fingers under the left side of the belt, finds the thin seam where shirt meets pants, and pushes it up slightly.

His fingers trace over the warm skin underneath, and he can feel each breath the man takes, muscles tense under his cool fingers. He reaches slightly higher, until the tip of his middle finger is brushing against ribs, bone under skin rising like mountains under grass, and finds with his index finger a slight rise in the skin. He follows this carefully as though he were picking out a road on a map, traces the knife scar that he can clearly remember bandaging, and he feels himself shake with a sob. "Snake," he tries to hiss, tongue crippled by uncertainty having nothing to do the man's identity.

He leans forward, rests his head against Snake's shoulder, feels the soldier's arms catch him and hold him tight. The sneaking suit is cold, designed to contain heat but maintain a cool surface to hinder heat-seeking targeting. It is smooth under his forehead, smooth like a snake's scales, muscle underneath providing a comfortable resting place. The soldier's scent isn't strong, but he smells like safety, like warmth, like _home_, which is how the musk of nicotine and pine and sweat registers.

He can feel himself crying, tears cool on his skin, leaving a tiny train of moisture on his cheek before transferring to the soldier's suit where they doubtless continue to roll down the suit's waterproof surface. He can feel Snake's breath against his ear, feel it gusting through his hair. And, after a minute, he feels a rumble in Snake's chest, feels the vibrations as he speaks, feels the air against his ear stopping and starting as Snake marshals the air stream into words. Shuddering, he pulls away, backs up to face his partner. He keeps his hands raised, fingers resting gently on Snake's chest, rising and falling slightly with each breath the soldier takes.

The fear is reasserting itself now, maw widening in his stomach, so wide he can feel it pressing against his sides, waiting to consume him. "I-I can't… I can't hear you." He knows he has spoken, feels his tongue pressing against his teeth, against the roof of his mouth. But all he hears is silence, thicker than flannel, thicker than velvet, thicker than any such useless comparison because his ears aren't blocked, they're hollow, and the terror only spreads when he feels himself sob and _hears nothing_. He can't ignore it anymore, can't ignore what they've done, what he's lost, what he'll _never have again_ and that's sight and sound and colours and music and his computer screen and his keys clicking and Snake's smile and Snake's laugh and even in Snake's arms he suddenly feels frozen and alone in darkness and silence and it doesn't matter if he's crying or whimpering because he'll never see or hear it.

He is rescued from the void by Snake pulling him to his feet, so quickly that he almost falls. The soldier takes his head in calloused hands again and tilts it slightly so that he is facing to the side before letting go, nudging for just a second to indicate he should keep facing that direction. He feels air move past the side of his face, imagines Snake snapping his fingers, or perhaps clapping his hands.

He isn't sure what he's expecting, an attempt at communication, or a strong hand on his shoulder, or perhaps even just to be picked up and carried out. He is thus surprised when the soldier pulls him into a second, tighter hug, resting one large hand on his back, the other in his hair. His heart aches, arms trapped between Snake and himself, cold metal securing his wrists together so he can't hug the soldier back, and he can't remember ever wanting to hold anyone as much as he does Snake now. He feels the soldier's warm breath brushing past his cheek again, accompanied by the vibrations that indicate speech, tries to imagine his words, _it's okay_, or _don't worry_, or maybe just _I'm here_. He smiles slightly, even through the tears. It's unusual for Snake to be so impractical, speaking to a deaf audience. He winces.

After a minute Snake pulls away, and he feels the strong shoulders twist, soldier looking behind him at the door. He knows it is still open by the wet trails of tears standing out like twin tracks of ice through a pool of water, cooled by the draught. He feels Snake turn around again, and a pair of strong hands grab his right, pull it to rest between them, the left trailing awkwardly behind it. He feels Snake hook the chain linking the handcuffs together with a hand, give one quick jerk. There is a pause, and then Snake's hands are brushing against his right wrist, and the metal loop of the cuff is rocking against his bones. After a second there is a smooth shift in the cuff, and then it is gone. Snake removes the second immediately afterwards.

Free, he shakes both wrists as though trying to dry his hands, and then wraps his arms around himself tightly, splaying his hands wide against either side and digging his fingers tight into his flesh so that he can feel their outlines there, a kindergartener's Thanksgiving turkeys. A stinging strip encircles each wrist tight and wide like a woven bracelet, the painful kisses of the handcuffs.

He knows Snake is still standing close; the soldier is blocking the draught, and after a minute reaches out and rests a light hand on his forearm, fingers steady and still. He slackens his grip on his side and allows Snake to guide his right hand away again. Holding his hand flat, palm up with one hand, Snake traces a pattern across it with the forefinger of the other, short nail scraping lightly into the sensitive skin of his palm with each curve. _Hal_, he writes carefully, then pauses, looking over his shoulder again. The soldier's hand twitches slightly, in frustration or anxiety. Snake nestles a hand in his instead and tries to flip through hand signals. It is too difficult to make them out, though, to distinguish which fingers are doing what, where one action ends and another begins. It is nothing but gibberish. He shakes his head slightly.

"I don't understand," he whispers, or thinks he does, feels the breath move past his teeth. Snake stops, pauses for an instant. It has been almost a month since their last mission, nanomachines long since dissolved into his bloodstream, no chance of codec, no chance of Snake's voice. But Snake rallies, and with clear confident movements the soldier pulls his hand to rest flat in front of him again, supported by Snake's left, and begins tapping on it with two fingers, using his hand as a telegraph pad. A century-old code, but one which they both know. Snake speaks to him in flowing dots and dashes.

_Hurt?_ The soldier asks first, and he shakes his head with a bitter smile, feels Snake's hand tense slightly under his own, fingers tightening over the side of his hand. _Raiden here_, he continues, _waiting up the hall. OK to go?_

He nods, asks "How far?" almost stumbles over the words for paying too much attention to the movements of his tongue, wondering if it's supposed to end up so close to the roof of his mouth. But Snake understands, replies _Depends on route. Several halls, three flights stairs, at least._

"Should I keep talking?"

_Silence better. Morse OK?_

_Fine,_ he answers in the same, tapping gently on the soldier's collarbone with his free hand, palm resting cool over the slowly-beating heart. He feels his lips twitch into a slight smile despite himself, as tears finally begin to cease falling. He lifts his free hand from Snake's chest to rub at his eyes with the side of his hand, finds it cool against his face, thumbnail smooth as the inside of an oyster shell. He has grown used to the cold.

Snake's hand is resting on top of his now, pads of his fingertips the coldest points, colder even than his own hand, so that they stand out on his skin like tiny glowing points, white rocks in dark water. They twitch slightly when he stops, and then after a seconds' pause tap out slowly _Hal_, a master pianist picking out three single notes.

He doesn't know what he wants Snake to say. _I'll kill them_ burns bright in his mind, fiery and desperate, but it withers quickly to white-hot embers, invisible but painful: burning shame at the thought, then scalding hatred at the actions which forced him to think it, followed by more searing shame. He cringes away from the pyre he has built for revenge in his mind, and just as soon as he wishes Snake would take it, he is hoping with equal fervour that he won't, won't offer it, won't even speak of it. _It'll be okay_ echoes in his thoughts, a low reassuring hum, but even as he considers it, it deepens and strengthens, fed by fear of shattered trusts and reliance, until the low rumble is tearing through him like an earthquake, breaking apart the foundations of his world, and he never wants to trust something again, if it means this kind of pain.

Snake drops his hand, only to take hold of his arms and pull him slightly closer. He shakes when he feels the soldier drop his forehead to rest against his own. The fabric of the bandana is soft and comforting, a single fold running through it, pressing against his skin, dividing his forehead into North and South, Union and Confederacy, blue and gray. _Don't worry_, the soldier taps out eventually, fingers drumming gently on his left arm, the right held tightly. Snake stands still as a stone, strong and tense and taut as a wire holding up a bridge. He nods, Snake's forehead shifting against his, the soldier's fingers tightening momentarily on his arms before letting go and stepping back.

Snake takes hold of his hand again, with just the left hand this time, taps into his right palm. _Follow lead. If let go, drop against wall, stay small til return. _Snake is turning as he taps, pulling towards the open draught that is the rest of the world.

"Okay," he whispers quietly. And then, memory of the false Snakes breaking over him like an icy wave, he tugs at Snake's hand. "How will I know it's you?"

Snake pauses at this. Then, signals quickly, _like this_, and with the other hand taps his left shoulder four times in quick succession, an H. He nods again. Snake tightens the hold on his hand, and leads him forward.

He has become used to shuffling around like an old man; back rounded, hands outspread, feet never leaving the ground as if afraid of losing it; to scrambling on the ground like a dog. But Snake takes his hand and leads him forward with no hesitation, so that he is reminded of Sanzou and Gokuu, the one freeing the other from his chains. In his mind Snake is shining like the monkey's sun, bright and strong and sure as he leads a stumbling animal from his cage.

The air in the hallway moves in a slight breeze, but after the close confines of the cell it seems a windstorm, cold and biting on his face and arms. It smells dry and just slightly metallic, signs of intense air conditioning. It isn't blowing straight through the hall, but rather spinning like a pinwheel, or the first breaths of air around the eye of an infant tornado. He shivers, but his right hand is holding Snake's left like a lifeline, and his own left is held out from his side as if to fend off a tackle. It's an instinct that he can't shake. The best he can do is to hunch slightly and keep his elbow pressed to his side, for all the warmth that offers.

They've only walked a few steps when Snake stops abruptly, pushing slightly on his hand to signal for him to do the same. His heart, until then unnoticed, leaps violently into his throat and sticks there, pounding quick as a drumroll, the shift so quick that he sways. The pace and strength of the beats continue so that he feels he must be shaking with them. The need for silence is a chain around his throat, cold and tight, and he tries to breath shallowly but his heart is sucking the air from his lungs and in his terror he can't slow it. Snake taps _wait_ against his palm, and they stand still in the hall, Snake neither moving forward nor pulling a weapon, nor apparently shifting at all.

He finds the wall first with his elbow, brushes against something cold while he's trying to stand still and silent as his heart beats so hard it must almost be audible, shaking his entire body with each pump. He makes a sound now, feels the air slip through his locked throat, and flinches, waiting for the flash of pain and then nothingness of a bullet. He clamps down entirely on his breathing, holding his breath tight in his lungs, eyes tight shut for all the difference it makes. Almost immediately, heart skipping out of control, his head has grown hot and aching and his chest is burning.

Snake turns to him, though, swivelling around like a coin spinning on its edge, and rests a light hand on his left shoulder, tapping into his right.

_OK,_ he taps, _Raiden here. Calm. Breathe. OK? _

He lets out the breath he's been holding and sucks in another, finds support in the wall behind him to stop his trembling as the terror drains away. Snake just stands there, waiting, a light reassuring presence, gentle as sunshine. He nods after a minute.

_OK,_ he replies, and then, _R. knows?_

There is a short pause, presumably as Snake catalogues the abbreviation, and then _Yes_.

He nods, looks to his left where he imagines Raiden to be, based solely on the direction Snake was facing when he stopped. There is, of course, no hint of his presence, no perceptible disturbance in the air current, no scent, nothing. A void.

Snake shifts slightly, and he takes this as his cue, holds out his arm as if waiting to be escorted across the street, worries at the relief that soaks through him when Snake takes his hand. They walk on.

Having found the wall, a new and stable source of security, he is unwilling to give it up. He walks next to it, forearm pressed against the dusty cement. It is uneven under his skin, rising and falling in mountains and craters similar to those in his cell, but he does not know the wall's landscape, and the tiny mountains are sheer and scratch against his skin. He does not mind, though, and rather than concentrating on the journey he names them, dives deep down into his memory and catches hold of old astronomy courses taken for Science credits and pulls the names, dull, tarnished coins, from that long-ignored chest. Mons Huygens, Mons Hadley, Mons Bradley, Mons Penck, Mons Blanc. When he runs out of mountains he moves to ranges, Montes Rook, Montes Haemus, Montes Cordillera.

By the time he has exhausted this list, they are at the end of the hall, Snake tapping _Wait- door_ into his palm, and pausing himself. But they are moving again, almost immediately, into a new hallway. His fingers brush over the colder, smoother surface of a metal door frame, and into this new compartment. The air here is still, and smells different, so that he would have known he was crossing a border even if Snake hadn't told him. The scent is sharp and stark, and brings with it memories of snow and ice, electrified floors and supercomputers running in tandem. The sickening scent of rubber and chemicals; high-potency industrial floor cleaner. He takes a breath through his mouth, savouring the escape, but the touches forming the phrase _silence is better_ against his skin burn in his memory, and he clamps his mouth shut in a tight line and scrunches his nose against the smell.

He follows the wall here, as well, and finds that while it is cleaner, the pads of his fingers sticking to it slightly as he traces them along it in inquiry, it is just as pock-marked. Snake is leading him more quickly now, hand tight around his own, thumb digging into his palm slightly. He knows this area, remembers it, has been here before, and is sure it isn't empty, like the cell bay. Knows at any minute someone might step out to raise the alarm. He shrinks further against the wall, elbow bumping along into the deeper craters. He swallows dryly and begins to name them, as best he can remember.

Best known, Mare Serenitatis, the sea of serenity. Larger but forgotten, Mare Imbrium, the sea of showers. Larger still, Mare Frigoris, the sea of cold. They are hurrying now, Snake dropping back to walk by his side, loosing the grip on his wrist to take hold of his shoulder instead, guide him more steadily. His heart begins to speed. Mare Tranquillitatis, sea of tranquility, Mare Nubium, sea of clouds, Mare Marginis, sea of the edge. Snake's fingers on his shoulder tighten, and the soldier urges him on, forearm digging into his back, pushing him into a stumbling trot. His heart is racing. Mare Ingenii- sea of ingenuity- Mare Undarum- sea of waves- Mare Crisium- sea of crisis. His skin catches in a hole, and he winces at the scrape, breath hitching slightly- Oceanus Procellrum, ocean of storms. Snake's arm slides down to encircle his waist in a tight grip, and an instant later he is pulled away from the wall, from his map, from his centre of focus and thrown into empty black uncertainty with only Snake's arm as a tie to safety, security, strength.

Without warning he is whipped around, Snake actually picking him up off the ground and swivelling him to the side like a tetherball. He is spun around in a sharp curve so fast the soldier is forced to catch him hard enough to half-wind him, before dropping him on the ground right up against a wall and breaking contact. He drops immediately into a ball, squatting low to the ground, one arm pressed flat against the wall. One palm rests against the cool surface, finger-tips tracing the cracked join with the cement floor; the other he holds tight to his side still ready to fend off a tackle.

Before he has time to think, though, to imagine, a hand is tapping his shoulder in quick, bird-like pecks, four dots. _H_. He turns, and even as he does so a smaller gloved hand is taking hold of his left wrist, pulling him to his feet and leading him quickly several paces forward. Raiden hardly pauses to tap out _stairs_ before they are stumbling up them. His toes catch on nearly every one, not recovered from the unexpected first, and by the time they hit the landing Raiden has taken a firmer hold, one hand at his elbow, the other around him on his side, half guiding, half carrying him. Raiden's gloves are cool and smooth as onion peel against his skin, seams almost unnoticeable, fabric nearly identical to Snake's sneaking suit.

They make the sharp turn at the landing and continue up the next set, Raiden pausing infinitesimally to allow him to regain his balance and catch the pattern of the stairs, before they are climbing this flight. Raiden's fingers loosen slightly against his elbow, and the soldier taps out _silent_, slowing slightly and moving more smoothly.

He nearly freezes, icicles of fear shooting through him, and he immediately stops breathing, only to start again when Raiden squeezes his side gently. He steps as lightly as possible, knows his rubber-soled sneakers are silent but his jeans are not, smoothes out his movements to resemble a sloth's. They glide up this set of stairs and pause, Raiden tense against him, head turned towards the inside of the stairwell, soldier's breath cutting across the back of his neck making his hairs stand on end. His heart is racing, slow breathing causing his head to begin to spin, and he can feel himself swaying in Raiden's grip. The soldier pushes him on after a minute, gently, slowly, movements wide for silence, and guides him up a further flight.

They stop there, Raiden pushing him into a corner and withdrawing his arm, keeping contact only with a slight touch at the wrist. The soldier is standing at least a step away, and remains stiff as a board. He shifts, slightly, and Raiden's hand at his wrist spreads, fingers pressed firmly against his skin. _Silent_, is repeated. He nods, slightly, and stands still, one arm extended as a line to the soldier, the other wrapped around his waist. He feels warm now from the run, for the first time in days, and the cold wall at his back is a relief. He presses his upper arms flat against it, grateful finally for the cement's heat-sapping.

He can tell nothing of what's going on. The air is close and musty, thick with the universal smell of concrete stairwells. There are no draughts and no vibrations for him to go by, the stairwell even more secretive than his tiny cell was. Raiden is standing still as a scarecrow, as pointer-dog on the trail. There is a gaping hole, in his world of holes, where Snake is not.

He wraps a slightly shaking hand around to press his forefinger against the base of Raiden's thumb. _Snake?_ he taps lightly.

There is a slight pause, and he feels from the shiver in Raiden's arm that the man has shifted to look at him. _Luring enemy,_ comes the reply in quick, exact raps, as precise as a soldier's movements in drill.

He steps forward immediately, heart twisting sharply as a chicken's neck in professional hands. For a moment his world is filled with fear and urgency, bright and cold as the arctic midnight sun, heart lighting his world where eyes cannot. But he is falling back even before Raiden catches him, the brief burst of brightness swallowed by the dark, and he screws his eyes shut and bites his lip to keep from crying. He is useless.

The words he has not until now allowed ring through his head, shake his bones and heart, the peal of bells shaking the stone of their tower. _He is useless_. He can't help Philanthropy. He can't help Snake. Even in the dry silence of Shadow Moses he had managed to. Now, Snake is risking his life, and he_ can do nothing_. He will only know if the soldier dies when someone tells him.

He knew before what he has lost: his life, and that Snake may lose his because of it. Now, he knows what it means. The mortar holding together his world has been scraped away, and it is falling apart stone by crumbling stone, falling from dizzying heights to shatter on the cold, cracked foundations below. The ravens have flown and the tower he built up so carefully, so painstakingly, skill by skill, strength by strength, piece by piece, has been reduced to a hollow ruin.

He stands there still as a shipwreck on the rocks, cold and pain and despair boring wide holes in him to let his hope pour slowly out until he is empty. He looks forward with blind eyes on the rest of his life, and it is as bare as what he sees before him. His eyes are dry; it takes care to cry for loss. He has none left.


	2. Chapter 2

Time passes cold and heavy; he has no way to measure it. Once, they move down a flight of stairs; he follows Raiden dully, obediently staying where he's put. He stands rooted in the corner while the soldier moves around, leaving him for dozens of breaths at a time before returning like a bird to roost. The wall is cool against his back; his ears ache; he is trembling slightly. He doesn't pay attention; he is staring into the darkness.

There is a faint scent of something acrid mixing in with the mustiness of the stairwell. His heart skips, and for a second he tenses. It is a familiar smell, brings with it pictures of Snake grinning, cigarette hanging from his lips, the red glow from the tip reflected in his dark eyes. Smoke. And still they do not move, Raiden shifting around him from time to time, surveying the exits. His heart slows.

When Raiden finally decides to move, it is with no warning. The soldier grabs his arm in a tight grip, thumb joint digging between the ligaments of the underside of his wrist, and pulls him down the stairs at a run. He trips over the second step and barely finds his feet again at the bottom, treacherous ankle half-turning under him on the landing. Raiden does not stop, though, slingshots him around the corner and down the next flight.

He stumbles down the stairs like a log-roller on his uneven ride, scrambling to keep his feet on the uncertain surface. At the next landing, instead of pulling him around Raiden slams him straight into the wall, sharp elbow jammed into the small of his back pinning him there like a bug on a cork board. He closes his eyes against the wall, eyelashes brushing soft against the dusty cement, and imagines lying flat and pale on a stone slab.

Raiden's elbow in his back twitches several times, and then the soldier has grabbed his wrist again. He catches him up quick as a dog with a rat, and they are moving again, tumbling down more stairs. He really does trip at the bottom, feet catching under something heavy that gives as his weight pulls against it. He winces, but steps over.

The smell of smoke is apparent in the air down here, as Raiden pulls him out of the stairwell at last. It isn't as bad as Snake's bars late on a Friday night when the smoke settles low over the tables in a grey haze, but his breath hitches in his throat anyway. His feet slip slightly on the smooth floor, a checkerboard of polished tile divided by thin crosshatches of grout. He doesn't know where they are anymore. He allows himself to be led blindly. He can feel Raiden's footfalls through the soles of his shoes, tiles conducting vibrations better than concrete. 

Raiden guides him- pulls him -in a straight line, straight as an arrow. He wonders if he would notice if it were crooked. He is getting used to the smoke already, the tight itchy catch in his throat like a noose.

Their pace alters drastically, and he stumbles as Raiden stops in front of him and pushes him hard to the side. He cringes instinctively, waiting to hit the wall, and almost falls when he doesn't. Raiden follows him, turning him around with one hand on his shoulders, like a toy soldier. He reaches out for the wall and finds it, on his side rather than in front of him. They've turned a corner.

Raiden is tapping away on his shoulder, palm resting against the blade, finger pecking away sharply on the top. _Run straight. Outside close._ Even as the soldier is signalling his hand is shaking slightly with recoil.

As soon as the signal is finished the hand shoves into his back, pushing him forward into the unknown. He catches a trace of the wall with his fingers, cool and smooth as a blade of grass, and trips on. One hand guides him, tracing the map of the wall, the other held out instinctively in front of him. He falls into a hurrying walk almost immediately, and slows from that only a few paces later.

The wall is fairly smooth under his hands, but his fingers are used to delicate work, and he can pick out a world of rises and falls, bubbles and depressions. They don't matter. He has nothing left to distract himself from. He's opened himself to the dark and the silence and he doesn't care. Snake is gone. Raiden is gone. He has nothing left to protect. He has nothing left to lose. He wanders forwards aimlessly, hand dusting the wall. In his mind the world is dark and chill as the middle of a glacier, an elaborate palace of ice: cold, sharp and empty. His footsteps make no sound on its smooth floor.

He scuffs his foot against the side of a tile, hand knocking against the wall, and his other hand knocks into something standing in the middle of the hall. He pauses and turns slow as sunset in that direction, ice-tunnels melting from his mind. A pair of hands slam into his shoulders, a booted foot knocks against his. He is thrown into the wall, shoulder blades slipping against it through his thin shirt. The hands disappear for an instant and he slumps, but one returns almost immediately to press flat across his chest over his collarbones and holds him there. Uneven folds of heavy fabric press a pattern into his skin like the tracks of a snake sidewinding over sand, punctuated at the end by a hard crescent-moon digging into his shoulder; a button. Breath blows over his face, hot as desert wind.

He feels his eyes widening, heart suddenly pounding, breath catching in his throat. Time slows as his mind swims, thoughts pouring together and diluting, combining into strange shimmering mirages. Maybe Snake will come. Maybe Raiden will. Maybe the building will burn down here. Maybe he will die here. His thoughts spin around him like a merry-go-round, and he doesn't know which he wants, which to choose. Only minutes ago death seemed easy, seemed desirable, seemed the only option. When your life is behind you, there's only one thing ahead. The only thing ahead of him, frigid or sweltering, is darkness.

Something hard and cold brushes against his temple, sweeping his hair aside like a lover's touch, sweet and gentle. He is sweating, is trembling, doesn't know why. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to live. He doesn't want this.

Even an absence of traits can be a defining feature.

He stamps his foot down hard on the toe of the boot, and while ducking lashes out with a fisted hand. He drives his weight behind the punch, and feels it connect with a chest, the teeth of a zipper cutting into his knuckles. He almost overbalances, and throws himself backwards to keep from falling on his attacker, hits the wall with his shoulder.

He feels a shiver in the floor to his left and turns, fists raised. A stab of pain shoots through his left arm and spreads like ivy through his veins. He feels himself gasp, hand reaching automatically for the wound. He sways sickly at the touch of something long and plastic protruding from his arm- a tranq dart. He yanks it out, pain flowing in through the wound, and stumbles as he drops it to the floor. It is sand in the wind, rain in the ocean, lost without a trace.

He is thinking, is thinking, is thinking…

Nothing.

SCENE BREAK

He wakes to a smell like a match striking right under his nose and coughs, turns over slightly. He is warm as if wrapped in blankets, and he rests his shoulder against the wall and sighs. It's also warm, the gentle warmth of a wooden fence on a lazy summer afternoon, soft and comforting. He takes in a deep peaceful breath. And coughs. He shifts again, more sharply this time, and reaches up to rub at his face. His eyes are stinging as if full of onion juice, tears running down his face. It's hard to breathe, air hot as a greenhouse and full of thick acrid smoke. His lungs feel raw and scorched, forcing him to gasp with each breath, choke with each gasp.

He rolls onto his stomach, smooth tiles slightly warm under his hands, like dry soil under the blistering summer sun. His head is as thick as the smoke, thoughts muddled and bleeding into each other, one beginning where one ends, so it's impossible to sort them out. They eat each other's tails or heads or tails, run together smooth and slick as snake scales when he tries to pull them apart. He remembers choosing nothing. And then, choosing… something. He can't make sense of it. It comes down to leave or stay and it's easy to stay but hard to leave, Shadow Moses all over again except now it's fire not ice. He was something then, and nothing now, all that he knows of himself anymore is what he gives to others; colours and names.

He pulls himself to his hands and knees. He doesn't know why. His knuckles are stinging, and his left arm is weak under him, and his ears are aching, and his lungs are burning. He's a broken glass, water leaking slowly out through the bottom until he will finally be left empty. And yet, he moves. He's made his choice, it glints faintly in the murky depths of his mind like broken bottles or twisted silver, for all that he doesn't know why he made it. Maybe he wants to see - to meet - Snake again. Maybe he's just following the instinct of all living creatures, to keep living. Maybe there's still a thin trickle of hope that hasn't seeped out from between the cracks yet.

Tiles warm under him, he crawls on the floor like a wounded animal. He can't breathe enough to walk, is shaking so hard he wonders he hasn't shaken apart yet. He finds the door by knocking his head against it; it is cool and heavy and solid as a tombstone. He walks his hands up it until he is high enough that his weight pushes it open, is half standing by this point. He staggers out, from darkness into darkness.

The air outside is cool on his skin, fresh and green as spring, but he hardly notices for coughing, lungs burning badly. He can feel the tears streaming down his face, a cold breeze caressing them gentle as sakura petals. He stumbles forward as he coughs, bent almost double, until the ground disappears out from under him. He falls down a short set of stairs and cuts his hands and knees open on a gravel path, each stone a tiny spear-head in his palms. He would, he thinks somewhat incoherently, make a good archaeologist.

Somehow, though, the clean air is helping, and his coughing is clearing. He can take shallow breaths now, shaking like a sapling in an autumn gale with the effort of not coughing but still managing it. He is adjusting to the outside, can feel the heat behind him now, apart from the cold at his face. He struggles to his feet and, arms wrapped around himself, trips forward. The loose gravel turns under his feet, shifting slightly with each step. He is soon off it, though, onto harder earth which does not give under his shoes. He can feel the gentle brush of grass sweeping against them. He stumbles through this world, unsure whether it is the dawn of his new life or the dusk of the old, ignorant and ill-equipped as a new-born. His only tie to the outside is through the damp grass under his feet; he is alone in his empty world, the first man on this vast earth, with only himself and nature for company. She may be beautiful, but he has no way of knowing, and he shivers now at her caresses.

The backs of his arms still feel warm, like a day-old sunburn under the hot sun. He realises has no idea if it's day or night. And he's tired, so tired. He stumbles, maybe on a slight hill, maybe he's just lost track of the tilt of the ground, and falls to his knees. The grass cool and damp under him, smells faintly green and sweet in his smoke-filled head. He buries his hands in the thin blades, weaves himself into his only remaining companion. The grass would make a better bed than he's had for days, maybe weeks.

He doesn't get the chance to lie down. There is a slight tremor in the dirt, as if the earth is quivering; he turns slowly as a weathervane with only a breath of wind behind it, mind trying to marshal thoughts together. Before he has the chance a heavy weight hits him head on and knocks apart his regiments, and then arms wrap around his shoulders, strong and firm. He is pulled against a cool body wrapped in snake scales, and he doesn't need the H tapped into his shoulder to know who it is. Snake's hands pull harshly through the back of his hair, shaking it out, and for an instant there's the strong dry smell of burning hair. It fades quickly in the breeze.

Snake wastes no time. Before he has had a chance to completely understand that _Snake came back_, the soldier has taken his wrist with one hand and draped it over strong shoulders, the other dropping to tightly encircle his waist. He is pulled up to his feet and forward immediately, Snake supporting most of his weight and dragging him along. He rests his head on Snake's shoulder and tries to keep his legs moving, ground dragging by beneath his feet smooth as water beneath a swooping gull.

He doesn't know how far they run, doesn't think it's very far, can't imagine he has the energy to keep awake that long, let alone keep moving. The ground under them changes, from the firm earth of the open field to a drier, looser dirt which his feet sink into. There is a smell of pine, light and vague as moonlight through clouds, as his feet turn up the earth and trip on thin rope-like roots. He rests his free hand over Snake's, wrapped tight as a belt around his waist, and traces the cuff of the sneaking suit with a slow thumb. The material is double-folded here, thick and heavy as sleep, soft and slick as dreams. His head nods against the soldier's shoulder as he rubs his thumb against it in a soft pattern, waves lapping against the shore.

The terrain rises in a minor incline and Snake shifts from the straight line of the field to a curved one, twisting from side to side. He loses track of his self-created tide, head knocking against Snake's shoulder waking him from his dreary gentle half-sleep into a kind of aching exhausted half-wakefulness. After a few minutes the soldier slows and, shoulders shifting and rippling smooth as a silk flag in the breeze as he looks back, stops altogether.

He immediately slumps gratefully against Snake, soldier wrapping both arms around his waist. To his surprise, Snake lowers them both to the ground, sits cross-legged in the soft dirt, guides him to kneel in front. He catches himself with his hands, fingers digging into the ground. It is full of tiny sharp spears, more pine needles and sprigs of cedar than dirt, dry and warm underneath as a deep sandy rabbit burrow. He has no time for more thoughts. The soldier pulls him into his lap in one sharp movement and he falls into the embrace, sitting sideways on the soldier's calves with his partially folded knees and legs lying on the earth. Handfuls of pine and cedar dig up into his pants legs and prick against his skin like thousands of tiny kitten claws catching for attention. He ignores them; he is no longer alone, in need of company. Snake holds him tightly, arms locked around his body, chin resting on his head. Only the soldier's hands move slightly, back and forth like a searchlight over his shaking arms, as if reassuring himself of his partner's presence. The fingers are warm, calluses scratching lines over his skin; chalk over blackboard.

He leans in to rest the side of his head against Snake's chest, eyes closed, thoughts slow and rambling. Snake bends a heavy head to press his lips against the top of his own head, trailing kisses over his hair. He can feel the soldier's breath blowing through the tangled mess, feels Snake's chest vibrating gently with quiet speech. The soldier, he realises slowly, is trembling slightly.

He shifts against Snake, adjusting his aching arm, thoughts muddled and heavy. Snake straightens slightly, stops talking and removes one arm to dig in the belt at his waist. The soldier pulls something out and raises a hand to his head, forearm resting lightly against Hal's good shoulder. There is a pause, and then Snake is speaking again, louder now, chest reverberating more strongly against his cheekbone; raindrops rippling in a still lake. The soldier finishes quickly, returns whatever it is to his waist.

Snake's chest is cool against his face, and even his own heat does not change that, sneaking suit almost a non-conductor. But compared to his bunk, the soldier is much more comfortable, and he sighs and shifts himself to lie less awkwardly in the encircling arms. Snake's heart beats a steady tempo under his ear, cavern of the soldier's chest reverberating with it, and it is almost for a minute like he can hear it. He tucks his fingers under the slightly textured straps of Snake's holsters, lashes himself to his mast.

Finished with his task, Snake tugs at his shoulder slightly, not enough to turn him. He takes no notice. Snake shakes him lightly, and then begins to tap on his shoulder in deliberate firm beats. The smooth pattern is like a lullaby.

_Hal, it's n-_

He falls asleep.

SCENE BREAK

He wakes slightly several times, only enough to get a vague idea of what's happening.

Once, sitting on a slippery seat with his back resting against Snake, knees knocking against someone else, only the soldier's arms keeping him from sliding off the seat as they bump along. The smell of burning oil and exhaust tainting the air.

Once, lying, his knees and back bent, rocking with motion, hard upholstery worn nearly smooth pressing against his cheek. The sickening smell of carpet cleaner and the dryness of over-vacuuming.

Once, bumping along on Snake's shoulders, forehead resting against his arm, own arms dangling loose and limp. The scent of sweat and smoke, and just a trace of pine. Home.

SCENE BREAK

He is lying in a bed. The mattress sinks slightly under the weight of his shoulders and hips, supporting him gently. There is a pillow, soft and clean-smelling beneath his head, the scent of slick alkaline detergent and the fried heat of a too-warm drier. There are sheets, he feels them when he stretches languorously, and a thick blanket wrapping him in a cocoon of linen, close-knit and smooth with hardly any wrinkles standing out under his fingers like cracks on cement. He feels safe and warm, body heavy with sleep but rested. The smell of smoke is almost completely gone, and he feels scrubbed and clean as he hasn't in days, light and new as a sheared sheep. The ache in his ears, in his arm, are nothing.

Until he tries to open his eyes, only to realise they're already open. And blinks once, hard. For an instant, ice shoots through his veins, heart quivering. But he has been through despair and out the other side already, broken through that ice and fallen into the dark water and yet somehow managed to claw his way out frozen and bloody, and once was more than enough. He swallows and says in what he hopes is a firm voice, "Snake?"

A soft weight falls on his arm, resting over it through the blanket, dew bending a blade of grass. He pulls his arm out and finds Snake's hand, firm and warm and strong. The lines in Snake's palm are deep, and he can feel them, feel where the skin folds into deep valleys to encircle his narrower hand. A map to the future.

Snake is sitting next to him, elbow resting on the mattress creating an artificial dip. The soldier raises both hands to frame his own while tapping, quick and efficient, into the waiting palm. But he is suddenly anxious, adrenaline slipping hot and bitter as caffeine through his veins.

_Hal, y-_

He sits up in the bed, knees jerking up slightly under the blanket, and turns to grab Snake's arm with his free hand while his other tightens on the soldier's hands.

"Are you okay? You're not hurt?"

There's a brief pause. Snake's arm under his hand is steady, covered in a thin knit layer. He can feel a pattern under his fingers, thin strips weaving around a central one, over and under all the way up the sleeve in a Caduceus. Appropriate.

_I'm fine_, taps out the soldier, more hurriedly now, tempo speeding, _but-_

"Really? You were gone so long. And Raiden?" He relaxes slightly, feels a little shaky now, like a sprinter after a race.

_Everyone's fine. In-_

"Thank god. I was afraid- I couldn't," he stumbles off, too conflicted to guide his tongue with the precision required to speak without confirmation of his pronunciation. He feels oddly disconnected, taking shallow breaths without knowing why, hand trembling. Snake cuts in as he stops, even before, letting go with one hand and raises it to press against his mouth, calluses rough as almonds against his lips.

_Listen_, Snake signals quickly, beats sharp and light for faster transmission. The soldier drops the hand from his mouth to grasp tightly on his wrist, almost painfully, fingers digging into skin to catch attention. _Hal- it's not permanent. Your sight and hearing. They'll come back._

"Wh-what?" he isn't paying attention to his throat, isn't sure he's even spoken past the sudden tightness there, heart racing in his chest. He feels dizzy, like he's swaying while sitting still, Narcissus' reflection wavering in the water while he lay unmoving, slowly dying. His hand seems a long way away, cold and slightly numb. Snake's words filter into his mind as if through mud. He only makes out some of them.

_Nothing wrong… eyes.  Something… in them… kind… thin layer… pupils. Raiden… soon with… Eardrums perforated…not completely. In…  weeks… normal. Hal?_

He has the vague idea he's falling, but he never hits the bed.

SCENE BREAK

He wakes shaking, as if in a fever. His head feels cold. His heart is beating quickly; he can feel it against his ribs. It's as if his blood is too thin, pouring quickly and uselessly through his body, entirely unsubstantial. He feels disconcertingly not all there, as if he's missing something important but doesn't know what; an old bird nest in a dead tree, empty where the others are full.

A strong arm slips behind his shoulders and pulls him up, fingers tapping against his shoulder. He tries to puzzle a meaning out of the rhythm, but it doesn't fit the tune running through his head and he can't make it match up.

A smooth half-circle against his lips, cool and thick and tasteless as the moon on a dark night. Then cold liquid, thick and tart and stinging.  He swallows quickly, once, twice, then slows. He drains it in under a minute, and the rushing in his head calms slightly. He knows it now by the sour aftertaste to be orange juice. The glass disappears, and Snake lays him back down.

_Hal?__ When was the last time you ate? _A heavy hand on his, warm around his cold fingers.

"I d-don't know," he says. At Snake's absolute stillness, he expands, "I don't mean like that- I mean, I don't know. I lost- I had- have no sense of time. I don't even know what day it is. D-don't know how long I was there." He's rambling now, tries to pick the thread of his thought from a tapestry of only one colour. "I- maybe two days? Some toast and peanut butter… crunchy." He remembers thinking, "protein without the trouble of meat."

_Can you drink more?_

"I- maybe? Not a lot." Practicalities slip through his fingers like fish, gone the second he touches them. He is out of practice.

_I'll get some soup_.

Snake's fingers unwrap from around his, and he stretches his own out too late; the soldier is gone. He fists his hand in the thick blanket, some kind of cotton blend. It is soft as new spring leaves, lush but membrane-thin and almost transparent in bright morning sun.

The juice has helped; his thoughts are steady now. Steady enough to play Snake's words back and make sense of them. There's a stinging burning fear in his stomach that maybe he misunderstood, or even made them up, but the memory of the warm pads of Snake's fingers on the back of his hand like sun-warmed stones on ice is strong. It isn't permanent. He will get his sight, his hearing back. His holes will be plugged, his cracks sealed._ He will be whole again_. He only realises he's crying when a tear drops from his chin onto his hand, the ice of winter melting away with spring sun. He doesn't mind. You can't cry without caring.

There is a shift in the blankets at the side of the bed, and he starts slightly, raising his hand to brush away the tears. "Is it true?" he asks, doesn't bother trying to force tones past the tight shining trap of his throat, whispers instead.

Snake's fingers press against his arm immediately, streaks of sun melting away frost. _Yes_, he taps quickly, so quickly he nearly runs the dots and dashes together. He pauses for a second, and then continues at a calmer pace, _R. back soon with remedy for eyes. Ears will heal on own in week or two. _

Hal sits up in the bed, knees half-raised, heels digging into the mattress, staring at the dark, listening to the silence. It is just as deep as it was before, and he is afraid again, slightly, of this hope, this match in a world of paper. Even that is good, though, and the stinging pain of fear in his gut is better than cold nothingness. He isn't empty anymore. He has fear, and some shame. But he also has love and, brighter still, the shining star of hope. Hal knows what he lost; nearly lost everything. But he knows what he's found again, and that's fear and pain, and love and hope, and, soon, Snake's smile and Snake's laugh.

He smiles as Snake presses a hot spoon to his mouth.

SCENE BREAK

It turns out, Snake tells him as he eats, that while the soldier did originally lead a group of guards out of the stairwell at a lower floor, he quickly became distracted. He lured the men through the building, taking them out one at a time in convenient places, until he unintentionally ended up in the second floor rooms clearly dedicated to some kind of medical pursuits, medical in the loosest terms possible.

He stalked through these rooms until he found an occupied one, found a man working at a computer. The soldier threatened him until he revealed what he knew about the engineer; that he had been brought to hack and code. That when he purposely wrote errors into the code his eardrums had been incompletely perforated, enough to cause temporary deafness, as a punitive measure. And that, when he later attempted to send for help, he was knocked unconscious and rendered blind by means of a dark film coating engineered to bond to the cornea over the pupils, acting effectively as a veil to keep all light out. And, finally, that the engineer had been told both actions were permanent and left to reflect on his loss in order to instil greater cooperation later.

At this point, Snake's story becomes even sharper and more succinct, told in short, emotionless sentences, movements stiff and heavy.

He learned the film had a dissolving agent. He took it. He destroyed the computer. It sparked a fire. He shot out the fire detector; left the fire to spread. He went from room to room on that floor. He destroyed the electronics. He started fires, and shot out detectors.

He does not mention what became of the man.

He went down to the ground floor, found an empty office with a liquor cabinet. He pulled out all the spirits, shot out the fire detector, and left a blazing bottle of brandy on the carpet. He set fire to half the floor before someone pulled an alarm. At which point he left, assuming Raiden would by then have gotten the engineer out.

He met Raiden outside, younger soldier having just extricated himself from a shoot-out, looking for either himself or Hal, from whom he had separated. By now, the fire was licking out from open windows. He sent Raiden to find a car, and sprinted around the front of the building to go in the main entrance. At which point, half mad with fear and fury, he found the engineer coughing on the grass outside, shirt singed, orange-red embers glowing like stars in his dark hair.

SCENE BREAK

"Oh, Dave," he whispers, no feeling in his throat, but the soft breath of air drifting over his tongue, wind over the plains.

He sat still through the story, teeth knocking against the metal spoon, hot soup pouring in a rushing river down his throat and settling warm and deep in his stomach. He is warm now as the heat spreads out through him like mist, but even still he imagines Snake turning back to the burning building in horrible realisation, and he shivers. He is now not surprised Raiden was sent out to have the dissolvent tested.

Snake finishes the story at the same time the soup runs out, which is just as well because Hal grabs the soldier's bowl hand and draws up his knees to hold it tight against his stomach. He holds the hand tightly with one of his own, prominent mountains of Snake's knuckles encircled by the clouds of his hand. His other grips Snake's wrist strong and silent as midnight. The bowl drops, a forgotten stone knocked from a bridge, onto the covers next to him as he leans forward to rest his forehead against Snake's shoulder. The soldier's free arm drapes around him close and dear as the sky, elbow against the curving riverbed of his spine, heavy hand coming to rest over the dark ocean of his hair. Neither moves. They sit there, still as stone, each the other's world as time flows around them.

Finally, slow as continents drifting apart, he shifts to release Snake's wrist. He raises both hands to his face, Snake's dropping away. He runs them lightly over his features, traces their topography. His glasses are gone, have been since he woke to darkness. He traces over the slight slope of his forehead and the ridges of his eyebrows, over the low line of his nose, the sharp curves of his cheekbones and the long slant of his jaw. He can make a landscape of it; a wide plain, a thin mountain pass bordered by two valleys, twin curving riverbeds, but it means nothing to him. He has found meaning in everything else, given shapes and colours and names. But he can't seem to do it for himself, memory of his face and voice already slipped away into the soundless dark.

He turns to Snake, hands dropping to rest on the twin snowy peaks of his blanket-covered knees.

"What do I look like?" he asks, quietly. He isn't sure what he means. Maybe just, _How__ have I changed?_ Maybe _Do__ you still know me?_ Maybe even, he thinks from the bottom of a dark lake, _Who__ am I?_ He can assign identity to others to distract from his own loss, but…

Snake's fingers come to rest on his bare wrist, light as sunshine.

_Like Hal. Just the same as ever._

He blinks slowly. Snake's words glow soft as fireflies in the dusk of his mind. Whatever he thought before, he has not lost anything. He knows that now. His fingers are tapping a gentle pattern absently on the makeshift keyboard of his knees.

"Huh," he says, mostly to show he's paying attention. But he's not, really, is instead noticing the message he's typed to himself. _Hal Emmerich_. He is who he's always been, even if it's harder for him to recognise it. Perception does not alter fact.

Hal smiles slightly, just a gentle rise of the corners of his lips, morning light filtering softly through the trees after a particularly long night, and turns to face Snake. Phrases spin like bright tops in his mind, _Thank you,_ or _I guess I am_, or even_ Tadaima_.  

But in the end, as Snake stands to answer the door Hal is silent, and lets the soldier's hands slip through his. It isn't strength, or trust, or hope. Just simple faith. He doesn't need to cling to tin bowls, to sight, to sound, to Snake. He is not a shadow that needs someone else's candle to exist. He can light his own.


End file.
